


Demon's Mercy

by babybluecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Dean, Gen, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:38:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/pseuds/babybluecas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When weakened by his dying grace Castiel wakes up captured and shackled, he finds himself at mercy of black-eyed Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demon's Mercy

Knocking Cas unconscious was so easy Dean’s almost embarrassed for him. He jumped him from behind, the guy didn’t even know what hit him. Although waiting in the shadow of a tree the demon had been sure he would be discovered, that the angel would sense his presence. But he’s not much of an angel, is he? Not this weak, lying face down on the gravelly ground.

Dean had watched him from far away the whole afternoon: bleeding, limping, dehydrating – he’d been a mess, barely standing straight, with dark shadows under his eyes marring his face. Someone has to show him some mercy, and though Dean wouldn’t call himself merciful, he knows he’s the only man for the job. He throws Cas over his shoulder – he seems light like a bag of bones or even lighter and it has little to do with Dean’s demonic strength, much more with Cas’s life seeping out of his body.

Dean has got a place for them. It isn’t far away, but instead of carrying him all the way, he teleports them there – the basement chamber is pitch dark and chilly with the air damp and heavy, clogging the windpipes, weighing on lungs – but Dean doesn’t mind: neither of them needs to breathe, really. Not yet, at least.

He can see just fine in the surrounding darkness, still he turns an electric lamp on before lowering Cas down – the cold, white light laid on the stone walls, really brings out the torture dungeon vibe – metallic glow of shackles hanging from one of the walls only completes the imagery. Dean walks over to those shackles, then lets Cas’s feet touch the ground. With one arm wrapped around the limp angel’s waist, he uses the free one to lock the cuffs on his wrists. The spell-ridden steel bites deep into Cas’s skin when Dean lets go to bind his ankles – one of them bandaged, foot barely squeezed into the shoe.

“Stupid son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, choking on the note of tenderness he quickly rids his voice of. His left hand presses Cas’s chest hard against the cold wall to keep him vertical, not letting him hang down by his wrists like a used up marionette. “Wakey, wakey!” he calls louder, selling his face a few slaps to bring him around.

Finally, with an accompany of a groan, the angel’s eyelids flutter open, glazed by a mist of awakening and disorientation.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Dean greets him, walking away.

Cas’s legs hold him firmly upright, chained; his arms, raised loosely on his sides struggle with the shackles; then they stop, resigned, while his mind races to piece it all together – Dean’s face smirking at him fails to match the picture at first. Then it snaps into place and Cas’s heart sinks.

“Dean,” he pleads, before he can even get his voice to work properly – without the echo of terror in it.

He shouldn’t be surprised when Dean’s eyes flicker black, he’s known for a while what Dean has become, but no matter how accustomed to the idea he thought he was, it’s still a blow that pumps the air out of his lungs.

“Kind of dramatic, I know,” the demon continues, not even acknowledging he heard him, “but they already had spells on ‘em and all. S’pose your bros left them here, shame to waste ‘em.”

His face becomes unreadable, hidden in a shade, when Dean sits on the edge of a table between Cas and the lamp – his whole body turns into a grim shadow that likens his soul.

“Though, looking at you now, I’m thinking rope would do, am I right?”

“What do you want?” Cas demands through his teeth, biting back the last word of  _ Dean _ – this time it can’t pass his lips: there is no Dean anymore, just the monster wearing his face, playing a game. He’s got him here for a reason which is either an information or straight up  _ fun _ . And Cas is not sure what is the information he possesses that the demon might want.

“How’s your leg?”

There’s nothing but the calm in his voice, yet the question rings ominously in Castiel’s head. Automatically, he withdraws his hurt foot, although hiding it behind the other heel can’t help – he’s chained and powerless and — the demon’s right — ropes would hold him down as well as the spells do. Even free he wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight. His body’s giving up, the grace doesn’t heal him anymore – flesh wounds hurt and scab and scar at the mortal pace: a misplaced nail has made walking for the past week a living hell.

The demon could just leave him here and he would wilt and die. But that would be too easy.

“It broken?”

“What do you want from me?” Cas repeats louder, ignoring him. He straightens his back and raises his chin to make himself taller than he is, but the demon still looms over him as he stands up, arms crossed on his chest.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” His teeth flash white in the darkness as he tilts his head. Cas wishes the demon would just begin slicing and breaking – it would be just another torture, even if, going by Dean’s history, the most unspeakable he’s ever endured. Still, pain at a hand of a demon he could handle. It would be easier than to bear Dean’s mouth saying: “we’re still on the same side.”

“And what side is it?”

His barely maintained calm doesn’t draw a low laugh out of the demon, but a sigh that suggests he’s running out of patience.

“Apparently the evil side, huh?”

As for the emphasis, his black-drown eyes avert from the confused angel and follow his hand into the duffel bag. When it pulls out, the demon’s fingers are wrapped tightly around the First Blade. This, at least, will be quick, Cas thinks, but the demon doesn’t make a move towards him. He drags the whole bag back to the table.

“I’m guessing my little brother told you all about how much fun we had when he was trying to cure me.” The last words he spits out like an ugly curse, too disgusting to swallow.  “You do know he only failed, because he lacked a pair of hands on deck, right? Because  _ you _ weren’t there. Why?”

Cas stares at the demon defiantly, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach – did he go back to the Bunker to finish the job? Just before his lights went out, Cas was on the phone with Sam. He came out of the encounter beaten up and battered, but alive. If the demon’s killed him by now… Cas couldn’t have done much to save him, but he knows he would have fought.

But he wasn’t there.

“Alright, I’ll tell you why,” the demon replies to his silence. “Because you were too busy dying, you stupid martyr. You’re pathetic, you know that? And a hypocrite, too.”

“Hypocrite?” Cas echoes, his eyes glancing at the Blade as the demon’s fingers toy with it absentmindedly.

“You decided you have to fix me,” the demon explains, “without asking what I think about it. I’m strong, I’m powerful and I feel better than I’ve ever felt. But you think you have the obligation to make me human again.” As the Blade tugs sharply in Dean’s hand, he drops it just to show that he can – that he’s not the bad guy. “So tell me, if being human is so great, then why would you rather die than become one?”

He reaches for the duffle bag again, without looking at it – he can’t miss the flicker of understanding on Cas’s face when he gets it. And then he gets it. The glimmer of the angel blade in the electric light explains it all.

“So maybe we’re not on the same side after all,” Dean decides. “Unlike you, I’d rather have you alive.

“Leave me alone,” Cas spits out, after a sharp inhale. He shies away from Dean’s eyes that turned to green again. If it wasn’t for the blade and the chains and the cold smile outstretched across the twisted, demonic face, he wouldn’t tell the difference. Soon he won’t.

“Come on, buddy, it’s pragmatic. You can do it yourself,” Dean proposes, knowing the offer is pointless, “or I’ll do it for you.”

“You can’t do this to me,” he says, not even hiding the begging tone. “You can’t.”

His hands start yanking at the chain in the last attempt at escape. He looks more desperate than when he thought Dean was gonna torture him. Dean shakes his head as he steps forward; not wanting to give up the power he understands perfectly – what he doesn’t get is succumbing to death on its terms. He took the angel here to save him from himself and he’s gonna do it.

“I can,” he says, placing left palm on Cas’s forehead and forcing his head back, to expose his throat. “You would. Given a chance you’d shove humanity down my throat, whether I liked it or not.” Cas finally stops struggling, with the tip of the blade pressed to his skin. “And I have the luxury of not giving a fuck about your feelings right now.”

“Please,” Cas begs soundlessly, his blue eyes boring into Dean’s green. “Dean.”

With one, quick movement the demon makes a clean cut, too shallow to cause a permanent damage, but deep enough to make the grace spill out with the droplets of blood. It’s not much of a grace – dim and dense, closer to liquid than to a living energy. It doesn’t swirl lightly, blinding their eyes, it doesn’t burn the demon’s skin at the touch. Yet it loyally uses itself up trying to heal the wound. Who would have thought the grace can develop a Stockholm Syndrome, Dean thinks, watching the waste drip and disappear. It leaves a red crease still leaking blood, but not quickly enough to bleed Cas dry.

“Shhh,” Dean coos softly, pressing a clean rag to the cut, letting the man’s body lean on him, as he released the cuffs with a wave of his hand. “Sorry, buddy. I need you alive,” he whispers to his ear, “angel or not.”

They stay like this for a while, Dean holding Cas’s limp body tightly against his own, hands wrapped around his back, like a lover’s embrace, Cas’s head on his shoulder. He’ll need to drop him off at a hospital soon, so the wound is properly taken care of, but for now he lets Cas breathe and adjust. For the old Dean the weight of his body would become the weight of fresh guilt on his shoulders. The new Dean can’t pin a _ guilt _ tag to a beating heart, as it echoes hastily, a lone sound in the quiet basement.

  
  



End file.
